While still she chid the coming spring,
Which call'd him o'er his subject seas:
While, for the safety of the king,

She wish'd the victor's glory less.

'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: sad Britain now
Hastens her lord to foreign wars:

Happy, if toils may break his woe,
Or danger may divert his cares.

In martial din she drowns her sighs,
Lest he the rising grief should hear;
She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes,
Lest he should see the falling tear.

Go, mighty prince, let France be taught, How constant minds by grief are tried; How great the land, that wept and fought, When William led, and Mary died.

Fierce in the battle make it known,
Where death with all his darts is seen,
That he can touch thy heart with none,
But that which struck the beauteous queen.

Belgia indulg'd her open grief,

While yet her master was not near;

With sullen pride refus'd relief,

And sat obdurate in despair.

As waters from their sluices, flow'd

Unbounded sorrow from her eyes: To earth her bended front she bow'd, And sent her wailings to the skies.

But when her anxious lord return'd,
Rais'd is her head, her eyes are dried;
She smiles, as William ne'er had mourn'd;
She looks, as Mary ne'er had died.

That freedom which all sorrows claim,
She does for thy content resign:
Her piety itself would blame,

If her regrets should waken thine.

To cure thy woe, she shows thy fame; Lest the great mourner should forget, That all the race, whence Orange came, Made Virtue triumph over Fate.

William his country's cause could fight, And with his blood her freedom seal: Maurice and Henry guard that right, For which their pious parents fell.

How heroes rise, how patriots set,

Thy father's bloom and death may tell: Excelling others these were great:

Thou, greater still, must these excel.

The last fair instance thou must give,
Whence Nassau's virtue can be tried;
And shew the world, that thou canst live,
Intrepid, as thy consort died.

Thy virtue, whose resistless force
No dire event could ever stay,
Must carry on its destin'd course,
Though Death and Envy stop the way.

For Britain's sake, for Belgia's, live:
Pierc'd by their grief forget thy own:
New toils endure; new conquest give;
And bring them ease, though thou hast none.

Vanquish again; though she be gone,

Whose garland crown'd the victor's hair; And reign, though she has left the throne, Who made thy glory worth thy care.

Fair Britain never yet before

Breath'd to her king a useless pray'r: Fond Belgia never did implore,

While William turn'd averse his ear.

But should the weeping hero now
Relentless to their wishes prove ;
Should he recall, with pleasing woe,
The object of his grief and love;

Her face with thousand beauties blest, Her mind with thousand virtues stor'd, Her power with boundless joy confest, Her person only not ador'd:

Yet ought his sorrow to be check'd;
Yet ought his passions to abate:
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death complete.

She was instructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee:
Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,
Preserv'd the isles, and rul'd the sea.

But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O'er earth and water bears thy fame:
In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidst the stars to fix his name.

Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll:

From Mary's glory, angels trace
The beauty of her partner's soul.

Wise Fate, which does its Heav'n decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath
Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deified before thy death.

Alone to thy renown 'tis giv'n,

Unbounded through all worlds to go: While she, great saint, rejoices Heav'n; And thou sustain'st the orb below.

IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.

LET 'em censure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write,
Regardless of their grace, or spite.
No, no the fair, the gay, the young
Govern the numbers of my song.
All that they approve is sweet,
And all is sense that they repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, string thy servant's lyre:
Love shall be my endless theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine:
May I grasp at empty praise;

And lose the nymph, to gain the bays.